Sharing Jesus (Seeing Jesus Book 3)

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Then Jason collected the cogent thought that church ought to be like this. But that thought ignited an internal argument, which alerted some controlling part of his mind that he was back in his head, no longer abandoned to worshipping the living God, the God who sent Jesus into the world, the Jesus who had stepped into his life in a visible and audible way.

  The sound of added voices dissipated. Jason peeked at the sound booth. He could see no one there turning down whatever synthesized tone had produced those voices. He only found out later that the two engineers in the booth had been laying in a heap on the floor, one bawling, the other laughing uncontrollably. They had introduced no recorded or synthesized music to the mix.

  Jason began to knit together a connection between losing his focus on that supernatural worship, and the fading of that feeling of God hovering in the room, of Jesus being real, of angels singing. He strained his neck to get a look at Jesus. Jesus was standing now, his hands at his side. He was looking at the overwhelmed worshippers, turning his eyes on this one laying at his feet, that one struggling to get back up, one crying, another chuckling to himself as if inebriated.

  Then Jesus looked squarely at Jason. Jason let the back of his head land gently on the stage. He remembered that he could speak to Jesus through his thoughts, so he asked a question.

  “Did I have something to do with starting and stopping all that?” he asked, launching a thought into a void in which he had met Jesus’s voice before.

  “Yes, you did that,” Jesus’s voice said in reply.

  “But it was really you that did it,” Jason said, still using only projected thoughts, and not his lips.

  “It was me, of course,” Jesus said. “I have done it all. I created the whole world as you know it, and I broke humanity free from the death grip of sin and Satan. And when I had done all of that, I handed it off to you and your family, all of humanity.”

  Jason pondered this response, theology a second nature to him, and the words Jesus sent him all making sense in his head. But none of it made sense on the stage, in the dim auditorium, where heavenly worship had visited and vanished. What made least sense of all is why Jason would cut it off, why he would allow it to end.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Jason,” he heard Jesus say. “This too will take practice.”

  That comment surprised Jason so much that he sat up, his head swimming with the suddenness of changing elevation. “What?” he said, aloud, without being aware that he had changed from thought to speech.

  The few band members now sitting, opened their eyes or turned their heads toward Jason. Strangely, he didn’t care. He was more fixated on what Jesus was saying to him.

  “You pulled heaven down to earth,” Jesus said, still speaking directly into Jason’s mind. “You have that privilege, you and anyone who will give it a try.” Jesus walked to Jason’s spot on the stage and stood looking down at him.

  Jason wanted to stand, but found his limbs stubbornly uncooperative.

  “On earth as it is in heaven,” Jason said.

  “Yes, that’s your privilege and your commission.”

  “But it seemed like you were telling me to take it easy, to stop striving and working to get approval,” Jason said, remembering to keep his words internal, in that meeting place in his mind.

  “You have work to do. But it’s not difficult, if you do it with the tools I give. What you did, wishing for more worship, was the sort of work you should do. And you did it for me, not for you.”

  Jason was nodding and staring into Jesus’s eyes. All of the other band members, except Anika, were climbing back to their feet, some fully conscious and some not. All of these were aware of Jason sitting on the floor staring at empty space, as if he saw someone there. No one spoke. The room still felt like it was reserved for holy things, and mundane words seemed a violation of that time and place. The generally level-headed and rational guitarist seemed, for that moment, to be in another world—perhaps the world that they had just sampled for their first song.

  However it is that people become aware that others are looking at them, Jason detected the furtive glances of some, and the incredulous stares of others. And those other eyes began to outweigh the eyes of Jesus. Self-consciousness pulled him out of his encounter, and back to his feet.

  Each person in the band and the sound booth, had experienced something unprecedented in their lives. Each was self-conscious about what he or she had done during that elevated moment of extra-terrestrial connection. Each of them also struggled to make sense of why it happened there that night. None of them had been aware of anything special about that worship practice, or the day that led up to it—none of them, that is, except Jason.

  He joined the others in crawling back into their accustomed shells of self-absorption and self-protection.

  Sarah managed to gain some ground back toward her plan for the night, rousing even Anika to her feet and her place behind the microphone. Though they all remained shy about what had happened, they let each other in as deep as a knowing smile—a smile that said, “Let’s get past this awkwardness to the business at hand.”

  Jason understood this reaction perfectly well. The sort of emotional experience that just showed up at band practice was a stranger to that church. People didn’t usually raise hands during worship, let alone fall prostrate in the manifest presence of God. That was reserved for other churches, other people, other-worldly people. No one in that room had a comfortable set of lenses with which to view what had just happened.

  The easy response, then, was to move on as if nothing had happened. That was the goal, though it was impossible.

  They all managed to stay on their feet for the rest of the practice, and they spoke to each other in nearly normal tones, with nearly normal looks. But none of them could forget what had happened, and all of them felt some aftereffect.

  Keith kept flexing his left hand between songs, or when an acoustic break silenced the drums. He had been suffering from repetitive stress pain in his left wrist, right up to the middle of that first song. That pain was gone. He kept looking for it during breaks, but could find no trace of it. That was confusing. Healing was another thing that didn’t happen in that church, let alone at the average band practice.

  Jesus wandered the stage for the remainder of the practice, content to stand near his friends, to enjoy their music and even to enjoy their presence so physically close. Since Jason was the only one who saw this, he assumed it was a display for his benefit. Jesus lived inside each of these people, Jason reminded himself. It wasn’t as if Jesus was seeing them after a long absence or something.

  Though the fireworks had ended, the remaining songs that they practiced flowed remarkably well, and most of the people on that stage experienced a persistent lift throughout the next sixty minutes, as they labored in preparation for the service on Friday. It remained the most remarkable band practice any of them could remember—even Jason, who had already seen one band practice blown up by Jesus that week.

  Chapter 21

  Night Watch

  The next morning would require Jason to hand in one final paper that he had completed already, and would see Kayla headed to the Morrison’s for work. Normally, a Wednesday night was not a late night in their apartment. This week, however, was unique.

  They now both knew that Jesus would be going invisible the next day. Who could sleep knowing that?

  Jason didn’t want to talk about what had happened at band practice, not even with Kayla and Jesus. He felt responsible for something going wrong, but didn’t understand exactly what. He feared it was worse than he thought, and didn’t want to deal with discovering this was true. He was pretty tired already.

  Kayla broke out a couple of caffeinated sodas for her and Jason. Jesus said he would be okay. His sense of irony hadn’t worn out for Kayla, she laughed at every opportunity. But, then, she was still giddy after her time with Jesus in the studio. She could also tell that Jason was soldiering on, past some distracting echo of
condemning words, that were playing back in his head.

  Jesus wasn’t content to allow Jason to resonate with that echo. “I think we should talk about what happened at practice,” he said, his voice even and true.

  Sitting in his favorite recliner, Jason looked across the small living room at Jesus, sitting with his right leg crossed over the left at the knee. He occupied one end of the couch. Kayla completed the triangle from the other end of the couch. She had her legs pulled up beside her, bare feet pointing away from Jesus.

  “I feel like I screwed up, and I don’t see how I could have not screwed up in that situation. So I don’t know what there is to talk about.” Jason streamed more words than he had intended in his subdued mood.

  “It’s good to know your limitations,” Jesus said. “But you’re not obligated to adhere to all of them.”

  Jason tilted a gently scolding eye on Jesus. “What does that mean?”

  Kayla answered. “It means you can expect to make mistakes when you’re doing something you’ve never done before. But you can practice and get better at it.”

  Jesus looked proudly at Kayla, a sort of couldn’t-have-said-it-better-myself raise to one eyebrow. He looked back at Jason to see how he was taking Kayla’s answer.

  That explanation from Kayla stirred admiration in her husband, and he let go of his clenched heart. He finally told her what had happened at worship band practice. When he finished his story, which had to pierce through several exclamations of wonder from his wife, Kayla let loose again.

  “That was fantastic!” she said. “And totally out there, compared to what we’re used to at our church.”

  They had both been exposed to a more pyrotechnic worship experience on their summer trip to Mexico. Though the college was pretty conservative about such things, the missions team was less so, and the churches the students worked with in Mexico stretched across a wide spectrum of styles. Kayla and Jason had, in fact, been in a worship service where half of the band ended up on the floor before it was over. But they hadn’t been the least tempted to bring that back to their school, or their home church. That Jesus was involved in Jason’s stage-shaking experience added a whole new layer of legitimacy to it.

  Jason stared at Kayla with half a smile. He knew she wasn’t being ironic. That wasn’t her style. But he also knew that she was as inhibited as he was in worship.

  “So, you think we should do that sorta thing more, to get some practice at it,” Jason said, returning to Kayla’s words, formed before she heard the details of the worship practice.

  Kayla put on one of her cutest grins, not constrained by playing fair in this discussion. “Well, Jesus seemed to like it, right? Why should we complain?”

  Turning back to Jesus, Jason thought of possible complaints. “I felt like I was giving permission for it to happen, but then I got distracted when it did happen—people getting really carried away. So, then, I sort of shut it down, by getting all up in my head about it.”

  Jesus nodded. “A perfectly understandable response, given your experience. You grade yourself much more harshly than I do,” he said, his tone falling as he laid that at Jason’s feet.

  “So, you pretty much expected me to fail, then?”

  “Fail?” Jesus tested that word to see if it fit. “If you assume not setting the world record every time you jump is a failure, then I guess you could call that a failure.”

  Jesus was appealing to Jason’s track and field experience from high school. He won a few medals in the long jump, before banging up an ankle, and deciding to devote more of his energy to music.

  Jesus continued in response to Jason’s scowl. “It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a failure.”

  Kayla piped up, or piled on, depending on how you look at it. “That pretty much describes everything we do, right?”

  Now Jason got a bit more real. “Why didn’t you warn me, or coach me ahead of time, or something?” He was looking again at Jesus. His words came across as a hybrid between a question and a gripe.

  Jesus’s response was so smooth and even, that one might think he missed the sound of a rebuke from Jason. He said, “It would have gone worse, if you had known in advance. It might not have even started.”

  Immediately, Jason knew this was true. He wouldn’t have been able to resist tightening up his armor and gritting his teeth, in preparation for the unprecedented experience on the stage that night. He wasn’t a great fan of surprises, but he could see the value in this case.

  “Jesus is saying you did good, Jason.” Kayla was always ready with words of encouragement.

  “I’m saying more than that, Jason.” Jesus raised his eyebrows in an open invitation to follow him into something bigger.

  Jason’s renewed scowl and slight shake of his head testified to how clueless he felt about where Jesus was headed.

  “You see yourself as being confined to that little space where you play your guitar like a wild man, and you leave the leading to someone else. What you did tonight is lead people into my presence, into my father’s throne room. People need that. You can do that.”

  Of course, Jesus was right. Jason had been glad to play backup to the lead singer, the traditional worship leader in that trendy type of church. But the fact was, he could sing and play acoustic guitar in that lead roll, as he had in smaller settings, such as on the mission trip. Jesus was challenging him to take it to a bigger stage.

  Like most of us, Jason had aspirations, he liked the notion of leading people in worship. But the amount that he liked the idea scared him; it seemed dangerous.

  “Willingness to lead is not dangerous, in itself,” Jesus said, in response to what had only been a feeling, not even the start of an argument. He paused there, ramping up to what he wanted to say next. “I’m giving you permission right now, Jason. I’m inviting you to lead worship.” Again he let his words settle like new fallen leaves on a sunny autumn day. “Others will recognize it, and offer you the opportunity.”

  Waiting for permission, that’s what it was, that’s what Jason had been doing. Now he had it from the source. But the note at the end was critical too, that others would recognize it, and he wouldn’t have to promote himself.

  “Be willing to volunteer,” Jesus said, offering a final bit of clarity.

  Kayla giggled. She felt as if an overweight cat had just lumbered up off her chest, to finally let her breathe deeply. Jason looked at her curiously, but not worried. His wife was seldom silly. He trusted that something real was behind that girlish laugh.

  To twist Jason’s sense of propriety a thousand percent more, Jesus started to giggle along with Kayla. Can the Son of God giggle? Jason was checking his credibility boundaries. The answer arising in his own mind was, “The Son of God can do whatever he wants to do.”

  Jesus wanted to giggle along with Kayla, and that seemed to be the point. He wasn’t willing to leave her giggling alone. Jason resisted the temptation to play the tolerant adult, patronizing the goofy children. Instead, he wondered at the connection between his willingness to risk volunteering for worship leader, and Kayla’s dizzy relief.

  What followed was a conversation inspired by that light laughter and by Jason taking the giggles seriously. What emerged was Jesus leading them both in a night of “remember when.”

  For Jason, they visited the time he was fifteen and beefed up his courage to submit a short novel to an unpublished writer’s contest, in his home town. He ventured that risk, even in the atmosphere of his father’s disrespect of writing as a legitimate occupation of time, let alone as a career. The honorable mention which Jason received, the equivalent of a tie for fourth place among dozens of adult entries, launched the hopes Jason had been privately building in his room, after school and on weekends, typing away on his laptop.

  For Kayla, they traveled back to her senior year in high school. Her favorite teacher, Mrs. Slipakoff, had called Kayla to stay after class the last week of school. The round-faced art instructor leveled her big blue eyes on her star p
upil and challenged her.

  “If you really want to do this, and I personally think you should want to do this, you have to put yourself out there for the world to see, to love or despise.”

  For a girl of barely one hundred pounds, it seemed a heavy burden to take on.

  But Mrs. Slipakoff offered an elevating smile. “I think you can do it, and I have an idea where.”

  She connected Kayla with a friend-of-a-friend, who ran a gallery in the next town to the north, a gallery that prided itself in revealing new talent. Mrs. Slipakoff helped Kayla make the contact, and helped her select her best work from her senior portfolio. The rest was…not exactly history, but epic in its stewing and bubbling of Kayla’s inexperienced anxiety. In some ways, Kayla learned how to worry like an adult because of that showing—her drawings and paintings on display to the art-appreciating world, just two months after she graduated high school.

  A dousing of shame hit her when she recalled her melt-down over a large greasy thumb print of charcoal in the corner of one of her watercolors. “It’s ruined!” she had said, before collapsing into the nearest chair. Bernie, the veteran gallery manager, bypassed the drama, and gave her a lesson in recovery from loss. He taught her about reframing a painting in a slightly different size, after clipping away the irreparably smudged corner.

  “It was only a small breakdown,” Kayla said, defensively. She could hardly identify with that young girl of eighteen, now that she was well-established in her twenties.